


Well Begun

by methylviolet10b



Series: Camera Obscura [8]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-07
Updated: 2015-08-07
Packaged: 2018-04-13 12:32:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4522095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/methylviolet10b/pseuds/methylviolet10b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John hates being in hospital. There's a cure for that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Well Begun

**Author's Note:**

> Written for JWP Amnesty Prompts #5, #6, and #7. Multitasking for the win! Those of you who participated in the poll, thank you so much! I hope this meets your expectations.  
> Warnings: This is a continuation of Camera Obscura, Unlucky Number, Another Angle, The Job, Prerogative, The Enemy of My Enemy (Is Still A Freak), and Calling Card. If you haven't read those, this might not make much sense. And absolutely no beta. This was written in a huge rush. You have been warned.

Doctor John Watson hated hospitals.  
  
That might have counted for irony if it wasn’t so common amongst medical professionals. Most doctors hated hospitals. More specifically, most doctors hated being a patient in hospital, as he currently was. Doctors and nurses really were the worst patients, although almost all nurses did their best to be pleasant to those tending them, unlike many doctors, who were frequently arrogant pricks no matter which side of the bed they happened to be on.  
  
John did his best to not be one of _those_ doctors and instead take his cue from the nurse-patients he’d seen over the years, and from the better-natured, happily-remembered examples of his own patients. But it was hard. He had enough bad memories of being in hospital to last a lifetime already. Worse, he knew he was taking up bed space that could be better allotted to another. Yes, he’d needed the care when he’d first arrived, but that was nearly two days ago. Under normal circumstances he’d have probably been discharged after the first twenty-four hours, when the worst of the drugs and other toxins had been flushed from his systems and all his tests had come back within normal limits (well, except for his CPK levels, which were still far higher than normal but coming down nicely, and it was only to be expected given massive electrical shock. The lactic acid dump of full-body cramps brought on by a tasing wasn’t as bad as full rhabdomyolysis, but was still no joke. John _knew_ that, but damn it, he was a doctor, and could manage the rest of the regimen on his own, thank you very much). Sure, he still felt a bit down in the mouth, not up to his usual standard – okay, yeah, felt like he’d been punched all over – but that wasn’t enough reason to keep him under full observation in a private room under normal circumstances.  
  
Even living with Sherlock Holmes, a violent encounter with a spree killer was not normal circumstances. And that was worst of all; knowing that the killer was still out _there_ , and he was stuck _here_ , doing nothing. Not that he had any illusions about being able to do much, but at least he could be with Sherlock, just in case of trouble.  
  
A faint smile creased John’s face. Sherlock had actually come to see him, showing an unusual awareness of John’s improving physical state and ongoing mental frustration (although John more than half-suspected that Sherlock was also a goodly part of why he was stuck here in hospital under heavy guard; some of the men and women he’d seen looked far more like Mycroft’s people than New Scotland Yard). Sherlock had brought John some real clothes, for which he was utterly grateful, particularly the warm wool socks. John’s feet were always too cold in hospital. He’d even thought to bring John’s laptop, uploaded with photographs of evidence from Sherlock’s own mobile, and even pictures of the hodgepodge of notes, items, and pictures tracking the case currently “decorating” their sitting-room wall.  
  
The diffident “I thought you could try to keep your brain cells from atrophying any further than usual by outlining your next ridiculous blog on the work for after I solve the case” Sherlock had uttered when handing him the laptop was better than any get-well card John had ever received. Not only did it give him _something to do_ , it was a gesture filled with genuine caring, no matter how much Sherlock would deny it if John ever mentioned it.  
  
The smile died as John turned his attention back to his laptop and its grisly pictures. True to Sherlock’s suggestion, John had started outlining notes for his blog as a way of reminding himself of everything that had happened so far. _The Case of the Calling-Card Killer_ was a nicely alliterative title, and did capture the “leave a signature puzzle pointing to the next victim” aspect, but it was rather too precious for what was really a horrifying matter. _The Adventure of the Puzzle Maker_ sounded like something out of a bad boy’s adventure book from the 1950s. _The Murdering Asshole Who Almost Killed Me and a Friend_ would only work if John could append _And Then I Shot Him in the Face_ to the rest of it, which seemed unlikely for a number of reasons. Maybe _The Mad Bastard Who Was Too Clever for His Own Good_ , except that described a number of cases, really, not to mention Sherlock himself.  
  
John’s mobile beeped with an incoming text.  He scooped it up and managed to unlock it just as two more beeps followed. He frowned as he saw Sherlock’s first message about the latest message from the killer being planted on Sally Donovan, of all people.  The second described the message, right down to the kind of leaf it was, all the common names, and the likelihood that it was made with a scalpel by a right-handed individual. And the third was a picture of the message itself.  
  
It was difficult to make out on the tiny screen of his mobile, but one thing immediately leapt to John’s attention. He hastily hit the button to open a return text and fumbled at the screen, typing out a response. Thanks to the lingering effects of his tased-then-drugged experience, John’s typing was even worse than normal, but he didn’t bother to take the time to correct anything before hitting send.  
  
_hafl done,_ he sent back.  
  
The building shook. It wasn’t a large shake, but a noticeable one nonetheless.  A few seconds later, alarums started going off.  
  
Adrenaline flooded John’s system, pushing back the aches and pains that had left him feeling like one giant bruise. He shoved himself off his bed and headed for the door as quickly as he could manage. It wasn’t very fast, but John knew two things that lent urgency to every movement.  
  
Guards could be distracted, particularly guards who were more trained as first responders and protectors than actual guard-this personnel. While he was sure Mycroft’s people were trained as bodyguards, he was equally sure that was not true of the Metropolitan Police he’d seen in the building, both on and off duty.  
  
And yes, he might be less than his best, but he was still far more mobile than Greg Lestrade, the murder-in-progress target left half done by their spree killer.  
  
“Well begun is half done.” --Aristotle

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted August 7, 2015


End file.
